Near Enemy
ALSO BY ADAM STERNBERGH
Shovel Ready
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Adam Sternbergh
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
CROWN is a registered trademark and the Crown colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sternbergh, Adam.
Near enemy : a Spademan novel / Adam Sternbergh. — First edition.
I. Title.
PS3619.T47874N43 2015
813’.6—dc23 2014024991
ISBN 978-0-385-34902-4
eBook ISBN 978-0-385-34903-1
Jacket design by Will Staehle
Author photograph: Marvin Orellana
v3.1
For RC
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part II
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part III
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
I hate to bother you,
but I am talking about evil.
It blooms.
It eats.
It grins.
—ANNE CARSON,
“The Fall of Rome: A Traveller’s Guide”
1.
Voice on the phone said a single name.
Lesser.
Woman’s voice. Hung up quickly.
Money cleared an hour later.
I wrote the name on a scrap of paper. Put it in one pocket.
Box-cutter in the other.
Simple.
And no way to know, when she said that name, that it would go so wrong.
2.
This used to be a city of locks.
Every home, at least five, down the door, like a vault.
Chain lock.
Rim lock.
Fox lock.
Knob lock.
Deadbolt.
Funny name, that last one.
Dead. Bolt.
Neither word exactly conjures security.
But no one bothers with that many locks in New York anymore. City’s safer. Or at least emptier. No end of vacancies. And no one bothers to burgle anymore. Nothing left to burgle. Everything’s picked clean, and anyone who still lives in Manhattan and has something of real value to protect—family, dignity, vintage baseball-card collection—does it with a shotgun, not a deadbolt. So the real problem, for the burglar, isn’t getting in. It’s getting back out.
After all, if you apply enough force, deadbolts give.
Shotguns take.
The richest folk still have lots of fancy stuff, of course. They just don’t keep most of that fancy stuff out here.
Out here, all they need is a bed and a connection.
Everything else they keep in the limn.
And if you’re that rich, rich enough to go off-body all day, to tap in and slip away into the limnosphere, then you probably live in a glass tower somewhere, sealed up tight, behind code locks and round-the-clock doormen who watch the street with shotguns propped on their knees.
Where you don’t live, if you’re rich, is in a place like this: a squat, sprawling, crumbling tenement complex like Stuyvesant Town. A few dozen forlorn lowrise apartment buildings scattered over several city blocks on the east side of downtown Manhattan, just close enough to the waterfront to smell the river. Brick towers clustered around central courtyards, grass long ago scoured to brown. Communal playgrounds left to ruin, slides warped, swings hanging lopsided on one chain, iron rocking-horses splotched with raw-rust sores, stricken by some rocking-horse plague. The apartment buildings themselves are about as inviting as a low-security prison, except without the tennis courts or fences or guards to give a shit if anyone tries to escape.
Now everyone’s escaped.
Courtyard’s a ghost town.
Lobby left wide open.
Waltz right in.
Stuyvesant Town was built decades ago for the middle class, back when there was such a thing as a middle class. Eventually sold by the city to private interests. Left to rot after Times Square. Now basically a free-for-all, home to squatters, deadbeats, homesteaders, claim-jumpers, freeloaders, and bed-hoppers.
It’s that last kind I’m after, by the way.
Bed-hopper.
One hopper in particular.
I have to admit. I miss this.
I’ve been distracted lately. On a kind of hiatus. Family business. Since I seem to have a family now. Of sorts.
It’s complicated.
But this?
This is simple.
You ask. I act.
Cause and consequence. Old as Cain and Abel. Old as the universe.
And not many things feel that simple anymore. Not in my life. Not in New York. Not in the universe.
Save this.
You may think it’s cold and cruel, and you’re right. On both counts.
Cold and cruel.
But then again, so is the universe.
Just ask it.
Apartment number scrawled on the scrap next to Lesser’s name.
2B.
End of the hall, under a failing fluorescent.
Turns out our friend Lesser’s less trusting than most. Has double deadbolts and a rim lock besides. So I pull out the lock-picking tools I keep hidden in my hair—
Kidding.
Heft a twelve-pound sledge from my duffel bag.
Let the duffel drop.
Before I swing, I spot a business card wedged in the doorjamb.
Pluck the card out.
Read it.
PUSHBROOM.
No number.
No nothing.
Just Pushbroom.
I pocket it.
Get back to work.
Heft the sledge.
Open Sesame.
Knock three times.
Jamb gives first.
Thank God for cheap doorframes and negligent landlords. And neighbors who know which noises to ignore.
I kick the door in, then wonder if Lesser’s got company.
Don’t have to worry about waking Lesser. He’s a notoriously heavy sleeper. Not the picture of health, either
. He’s fat, and generally smells like there’s places he can’t reach to wash.
I met Lesser once through my friend Mark Ray, but mostly I know him because he has something of a reputation, at least with the hard-core tap-in crowd. Some kind of whiz kid, used to be a hotshot at something. But he pissed it all away to become a bed-hopper, waste his days peeping on other people’s dreams.
Inside the apartment, I hear snoring. I follow it down the hallway, like Pepé Le Pew trailing perfume.
I used to love Bugs Bunny cartoons as a kid. Wascally wabbit.
Hated the Coyote though. Really hated the Road Runner.
That was some pointless desert bullshit.
Le Pew I could take or leave.
I find the bedroom. Nudge the door.
No furniture. One visitor. Skinny kid, junkie thin. Camped out bedside, watching Lesser, like a worried relative on vigil.
Lesser’s bed is no more than a cot. Coils of wires, homemade solder-job, like a grade-school science project gone awry.
Bought myself a word-a-day calendar, by the way.
Awry. Yesterday’s word.
Lesser’s under, snoozing in the dream. Occasional snorts let us know he’s still alive.
Light in the room is the color of rusty water. Newsprint for curtains. All the windows papered over. Old headlines scream at the world unheeded, like crazy sidewalk prophets.
The End Is Nigh.
Lesser’s naked, by the way.
It’s a hopper thing. Some like to do it in the buff. Bigger kick, apparently.
The other kid, the skinny one, just sits there, staring, gape-mouthed, as a stranger walks in carrying a sledgehammer. Maybe this happens a lot.
So I put down the sledge. Gently. Hold a hand out.
Name’s Spademan.
Kid blinks once. Sign of life.
I’m Moore.
Funny. Lesser and Moore. Fat and skinny. Like a comedy duo. And no shake. Fair enough. I put the hand away.
Can you give me a moment? I need to talk to Lesser.
I don’t think he’d want to be disturbed.
Trust me, I’ll only take a minute.
But I’m supposed to watch him.
I don’t think you want to watch this.
Skinny gets the hint. Grabs his things. Army rucksack and a surplus khaki coat, still has the soldier’s name stitched on it.
Bows to me once as he leaves, like a geisha. Which is weird.
Once he’s gone, I reach into my pocket.
Find my box-cutter.
About the time I get the blade extended, Lesser bolts upright, awake, already screaming. Louder than a five-alarm fire.
Rips his tubes out.
So that’s messy.
Still screaming.
Tears off the sensor pads, yanks out the IV. Also messy.
Still screaming.
It’s called the wake-up call. Senses coming back online. The sudden shock of the real-time world.
Slaps at himself like he thinks he’s on fire.
Still screaming.
Skinny ducks back in. For some reason.
Maybe curiosity trumped the survival instinct. Or maybe he’s genuinely concerned for his friend. Though that wouldn’t explain his quiet exit a second ago.
Who knows. Hopper logic. It’s—what do they call it?
Oxymoronic.
Today’s word.
Bed-hoppers hop from dream to dream in the limnosphere, unseen. They’re like peeping Toms, except worse, because they’re basically inside your mind. They peep on your fantasy, the one so twisted that you’d only ever dare to act it out in the limn, in total secrecy that costs top dollar.
It’s those dreams that hoppers are interested in. Because that’s what hoppers do.
Hoppers watch.
For that reason, they’re not too popular. Trouble is, if they do it right, you never even know that they’re there. They just watch, undetected. Like Scrooge, from that old Christmas story.
Ghosts of Perverts Present.
Hopping is highly illegal, of course, but if you get caught, you don’t end up contending with cops. People hire private dream-sweepers. They’re like bouncers, but less gentle. Sweepers catch you bed-hopping, they make you regret your actions. In a memorable way.
And not out here.
In there.
That’s why smart hoppers usually hop in pairs. Have a buddy out here to keep watch, like old Skinny here. Someone to tap you back out if you get detained. Otherwise, I’ve heard tales of hoppers who got held in the limn for weeks, leg-breakers working on them round-the-clock. Won’t let them wake up, won’t let them tap out, and if there’s no one out here keeping watch, then the sweepers can just whale away. Take their time. Weeks on end. Mark Xs on a calendar. Leave different marks on you.
The sweepers can’t kill you. After all, you can’t die in the limn. But sweepers find a way to use that to their advantage.
Then again, if the person you peeped on is especially vengeful, they might skip the sweepers altogether.
Hire someone like me.
Someone to find you out here, in the nuts-and-bolts world.
Where punishments tend to be more permanent.
Lesser’s still screaming, by the way.
I assume he ran into some limnosphere heavies. That maybe I caught him in the midst of a lesson and he only just barely broke free. Which is bad timing for him, given the fact that I’m here.
Frying pan. Fire. Etcetera.
Finally Lesser stops shouting. Slides into stuttering.
Mumbles something.
What he’s saying:
Not her not her not her not her not her not her not her.
Not here.
3.
Damn.
Quick house call turning into a fifty-minute couch session. With me in the role of therapist.
And here I forgot my turtleneck and pipe.
Frankly, I could still finish my business and get home early. But I’m curious.
Not her.
Not here.
So I pull up a chair and send Skinny to the deli for a six-pack and a quart of milk. Press two twenties into his palm, which is one more than he’ll need. Hope the tip means he’ll come back, looking for more.
He comes back.
Brings me a six-pack, a quart of milk, and a turkey-on-a-hard-roll besides. In case I’m hungry.
I’m starting to warm up to Skinny.
Crack the carton.
Milk calms hoppers.
No, I don’t know why.
Six-pack’s for me. Skinny’s on his own.
Lesser sits up in the bed, guzzling milk.
Cascade of white splashes off his chest. Runs down his belly. Pools over his privates. Covers them up.
Small mercies.
Then I ask Lesser to spill exactly what he saw.
Finance dude. Orgy. Saturday nights. Like clockwork.
Milk bubbles on Lesser’s lips as he speeds to spit the story out.
I’ve hopped it plenty of times before. So easy to get in it’s almost like he knows you’re coming, wants you there, gets off on someone watching.
Skip to the punch line, Lesser.
Lesser wipes his lips. Looks around. Realizes he’s naked in a darkened room with his skinny friend and a quasi-stranger. And, for some reason, a sledgehammer.
Puts the empty carton down.
Can I have my robe?
Lesser, I thought you’d never ask.
Lesser’s out of the bed, in an overstuffed chair now, in his robe. Terry-cloth. Underwashed. Seen better days. Hopefully better bodies too.
Lesser’s only early twenties, but he’s flabby enough for fifty. Stringy chin-length hair. Skin the color of the great indoors. Complexion like drywall.
He continues.
So I slip in, full-on cloak-mode? I can see him, no one can see me, unless they’re looking for me, which they definitely aren’t. Not in a room that’s so full of distractions. We’re talking wall-to-
wall centerfolds. Oiled-up curves in all directions. Like some vintage Playboy-mansion shit. And this dude—
Lesser leans in, like he’s telling us a secret.
—this dude has a thing for amputees. Total weirdo fetish. So half of these ladies are, like, legless. Armless. I don’t know. A few—
That’s interesting, Lesser. But I’m guessing that’s not what sent you out here screaming.
No. So. Any case. Finance dude. Buff as shit. In there, anyway. On the outside, he’s, like, seventy. But in there, dude’s a Golden God. Like he just surfed down from Olympus—
Lesser—
Okay. So orgy. The usual. Room is decked out in this kind of, I don’t know, Victorian drawing-room wallpaper. Couches everywhere, the old-fashioned kind, with velvet. Dude is jacked. Really overdoes it on the cock length. God, these coots and their fantasies. I’m talking javelin—
Lesser—
Sorry. So all proceeds as expected. Then there’s a knock at the door. And—dude seems surprised. Not scared, exactly. Not yet. Just—curious. Maybe a little annoyed. At first.
Okay.
So the door opens, and holy shit—there’s like—first the temperature drops. Like sub-zero. And these—the centerfolds? They start just—glitching out. Freezing up. Like the whole program’s seizing. So of course finance dude is super-pissed now. Because this is a mad-expensive construct—
But who’s at the door?
Lesser crosses his arms. Holds himself. Looks around.
I gotta go. We can’t stay here. We gotta go.
Stares back at me.
We gotta get out of here.
Lesser, who was there?
Black eyes.
Says it twice.
Black eyes.
Black guys?
No. Black eyes. Just her eyes. Floating there. You couldn’t see her at all. She was cloaked. Floating. She was wearing—what do you call it—
Lesser gestures. Full-body. Head-to-toe. Searches for the word.
—you know, like a ghost.
A ghost?
Yeah. A black ghost.
I puzzle it out. Find the word.
You mean a burqa?
Lesser nods.
Yeah. A burqa. So all you could see were her eyes. These black eyes.
Lesser shivers.
This banker dude, he just starts laughing. Completely naked. Starts laughing, like this is some present someone sent him to spice things up. Like some prank. This woman in a burqa. She isn’t moving. Just watching him. And he, like, walks right up to her, totally naked, this javelin dude. And he looks at her and says, What’s this? A present? For me? Well, then, let’s unwrap it. He leans in real close. Says to her, all low-like, I’m going to peel you.